


to death's other kingdom I will not go

by renecdote



Series: what should have been [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, Dick is a Good Brother, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Recovery, Seriously there's a lot of crying, butchering of TS Eliot poetry, everyone cries, jason lives, monty python references, vision impairment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-04-28 10:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14447220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: Bruce gets there in time to save Jason, but that doesn’t mean everything ends happily.





	1. such deliberate disguises of rats

**Author's Note:**

> It’s already April 27th where I live, so I’m posting this for Jason’s D-Day. It’s the first instalment in my ‘what should have been’ series wherein Jason doesn’t die.

In ten minutes Jason is going to wish he’d waited for Bruce to get back, but for now he’s standing outside a medical storage warehouse with his mother, firm in his decision. Robin’s armour hugs his chest and the cape hangs dead straight in the still afternoon air. Jason rolls his shoulders and it flutters slightly. Sheila Haywood watches the movement before her eyes settle back on the R insignia above his heart.

“There’s something I need to show you,” Sheila says. Her eyes dart back over her shoulder, toward the sliver of light creeping out through the door that has been left ajar. The yellow glow that spills through the gap illuminates the curling smoke from Sheila’s cigarette. It hangs between them, the acrid smell creeping into Jason’s nose, reminding him of nights spent slinking through Bowery streets under the slimy gaze of pimps and thugs and the homeless people in every alley.

The back of Jason’s neck prickles but he pushes the feeling aside. This isn’t Gotham, it’s not some shady information exchange, or a night on the streets among the vermin of Gotham’s lowlifes. Sheila is his mother.

_ His mother _ . He can still hardly believe that. Everything has been such a roller coaster since he was given his birth certificate with all those personal effects. Jason feels like he's swung between more emotions in the last month than the Newton’s cradle in Bruce’s Wayne Enterprise office that he likes to play with. Devastated that Catherine wasn’t his biological mother. Hopeful that his mother might still be alive. Frustrated by the first two fruitless efforts to find her. Ecstatic when Sheila called him her son. Worried about the Joker suddenly showing up.

“What is it?” Jason asks. “Is... is something wrong? Are you in trouble?”

Sheila’s smile is tight. “No, sweetie, nothing like that.”

Jason’s eyes sweep the horizon but there is no sign of the pickup truck Bruce took off in fifteen minutes ago. 

“The Joker,” he says, “is he-?”

“Gone.” Sheila drops her cigarette and grinds it out with her boot. “It’s just us here now.”

Batman’s voice is in the back of Jason’s head, telling him not to go in without backup, or at least not without casing the building himself. Jason doesn’t have time to wait though. Not when his mother needs his help. He’ll just go in and have a quick look around, figure out what the Joker is blackmailing his mother with, what exactly he came here for. Then they’ll be able to move more quickly to stop the Joker’s plans as soon as Bruce gets back.

Sheila opens the door wider and Jason steps inside. 

“What was it you wanted to show me?”

“It’s just over here…”

He doesn’t see it coming. His gaze has drifted back to the door, hoping Bruce will hurry up. It’s a stupid, amateur move, not paying full attention to his surroundings. And it lands Jason a solid punch to the head that sends him staggering backwards.

“Well, well well.” Garish purple and sickening red stretched wide over yellowing teeth fills Jason’s vision. The Joker laughs. “You’re a bit far from home, aren’t you, birdboy?”

Jason blocks the next hit, takes the brunt of it against his wrist guards, feels the sharp ache travel up to his shoulder and down to his fingertips. The punch after that catches him in the ribs, knocking him sideways. His head is throbbing, everything is blurry, making it hard to concentrate. He swallows and his saliva tastes coppery. 

_ I just have to last until Bruce gets here _ , Jason tells himself.  _ Buy enough time for Sheila to get away and Batman to arrest the Joker before he can escape. _

Pushed up against a crate, the Joker’s leering grin swimming in his vision, Jason finally gets a chance to fight back. He kicks out, catches the Joker in the knee, follows it up with a punch to the jaw. It’s sloppy, far from the refined technique he’s been honing under Bruce’s tutelage the last three years, but Jason makes up for it by throwing all his strength into the hit. The Joker reels back, goes down under another kick, but he just laughs harder. 

“Ooh you’re a feisty one,” the madman cackles. His hand feels back across the ground and comes up with a crowbar. “Mister J will have to teach you some manners, little birdie.”

Jason backs up to put space between the Joker and himself. He turns his attention away long enough to find Sheila, a screamed “run!” dying on his lips when he sees her standing to the side, another cigarette dangling from her lips. _She wasn’t wrong about the Joker being_ _gone_ , he realises, betrayal curdling his stomach, _she served me up to him._ A soon-to-be-dead bird on a silver platter. 

And then a sharp crack against the back of his skull drives the thought from his mind. White hot pain explodes through his head and his vision goes grey for a second. Several seconds, maybe, it’s hard to tell which way is up or down let alone how much time has passed. Jason comes back to himself sprawled on the ground with laughter ringing in his ears. The crowbar comes down again and Jason closes his eyes, curls up as much as he can and tucks his head down. A feeble attempt to protect himself. 

Again and again and again metal swings down, shattering his bones and his spirit.  _ It can’t be too much longer _ , Jason thinks, and he’s not sure he’s counting down to Batman’s return this time, or a more permanent end to the beating. His breaths are weak and gurgling. Every inch of him is in agony. 

The Joker is circling him like a shark. “One more should do it, I think,” he says, like he’s pondering the number of flowers needed in an arrangement, or the number of candles to decorate a cake. Jason’s too faint from pain and blood loss to even crawl away let alone attempt to fight back.

But this time, the crowbar doesn’t land.

Only glimpses of what’s happening filter through the pain and encroaching fog of unconsciousness. Shapes without forms, shades without colours. A Stygian cape sweeping through his field of vision, laughter abruptly stopped, replaced by a growling voice. Something jostles him and Jason whimpers. Laughter rings out again and then there are glowing digits, ticking down beside his head. 

_ So this is how my life ends. With a bang, and with a whimper _ , Jason thinks. And then he passes out.


	2. the hope of the empty man

Bruce sits stiffly. His back aches, bruised muscles protesting the hard plastic of the waiting room chair, and his stiff knee screams to be stretched and moved. There are more important things at stake than Bruce’s knee though. So he ignores the discomfort and sits, tense as a cello string, until a doctor finally steps through the swinging doors and calls, “Family for Jason Todd?”

The doctor’s hand is cool and dry and Bruce tries not to think too hard about bodies turned cold with death as he shakes it. He’s usually more in control than this, Brucie Wayne’s charm sliding easily over his concern, but now he just feels hollow. Detached. Like he’s drowning in shallow water.

“My son-” he says, desperate, “Jason, is he-?”

“Jason just came out of surgery," the doctor says. Mallard? Malloy? Bruce will have to double check his name later; right now he only cares what the man can tell him. “I’ll take you back to see him and we can talk.”

It feels like it takes a second and an eon to traverse the hallways back to the room Jason has been admitted into. Bruce’s leather shoes feel like cinder blocks but the rest of him feels strangely light. Relief - _he’s alive, he’s going to be okay_ \- bubbles in his chest, but it’s tempered by the choking fear that he hasn’t been able to shake away since he pulled the Joker off Jason and carried his son out of the building seconds before it blew up.

“He woke up briefly after the surgery,” the doctor says when they reach the right door, “but the pain medication he’s on will likely keep him unconscious for a while.”

Bruce isn’t prepared when he steps into the hospital room. Jason is small and pale on the bed and Bruce feels nauseous thinking about all the machines keeping him alive. The last time he saw a son buried under so much tubing, wiring and bandaging was when Two-Face beat up Dick with a baseball bat. He’d been sure he was going to lose his son that time too.

Tears prickle at his eyes and Bruce squeezes his eyes shut. He takes the seat beside the hospital bed, reaches out to grasp Jason’s hand like he’s on autopilot. The doctor is still talking; Bruce doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“How...” Bruce has to pause to swallow, his mouth feeling dry and his throat tight. He can’t look away from Jason’s bruised and swollen face, eyelashes fluttering slightly with restless dreams. “How bad is it?”

There’s a pause, just long enough to send Bruce’s heart into his throat, before the doctor says, “Not as bad as it could be. Jason has several fractures, including his ulna, radius and a number of ribs. Multiple lacerations and contusions, but those are mostly superficial. His spleen is bruised, but no major internal bleeding. Damn lucky kid, really. His greatest injury is the skull fracture, but we won’t be able to tell the extent of the damage until he wakes up and we can run some more tests.”

Bruce doesn’t know what to say. _Damn lucky_ feels disturbingly appropriate and far from the truth all at once. Jason was lucky Bruce arrived when he did. Lucky the Joker decided to play with his food, taking his time beating Jason up before tossing dynamite into the mix. Lucky his injuries weren’t fatal. But it wasn’t luck that put Jason in that situation, not even _bad_ luck, it was Bruce. Leaving him alone when he knew the Joker was there. Not thinking it through enough to realise Jason would definitely throw himself into danger to help a civilian, even if that civilian wasn’t his newly-found biological mother. Hell, allowing Jason to put the Robin costume on in the first place. On the scales of blame, Bruce’s guilt weighs heavy.

“There was no laceration of the dura mater but I am concerned about the pressure the fracture has put on his visual cortex," the doctor continues. “When that black eye goes down, we'll get an ophthalmologist up here to assess his vision.”

Bruce nods absently. Jason’s hand is small and warm beneath his own. Bruce clings to that warmth, pushing aside intruding thoughts about complications and the long recovery Jason has ahead of him, allowing himself to take a moment just to be glad that it wasn’t a lot worse. That the hand beneath his isn’t cold and lifeless.

\--

The twitching of Jason’s fingers is the first sign he’s awake. Bruce notices it immediately, having been anxiously watching his son since he sat down beside the bed almost two hours ago.

“Jason?” he calls softly.

Jason’s eyelids flutter and Bruce catches a glimpse of foggy green before Jason screws his eyes shut. “Br’s?” he slurs. “Wha…”

“I’m here,” Bruce says. He squeezes Jason’s hand. “You’re in the hospital. Do you remember what happened?”

Jason moans, head rolling across the pillow. He tries to bring his left hand up to clutch at it but the bulky cast and sling keeps his arm pinned to his chest. "I don’... It hur's. Bru’s..."

“Okay.” Bruce brushes tangled hair away from Jason’s eyes, tucking it carefully behind his ear. The motion seems to soothe him more than Jason. “Okay, I’ll get a nurse, see if you can have more medication-”

“No!” Jason’s fingers fist in his sleeve. Sudden panic seems to have cut through the haze of the drugs he’s on because his eyes are wide and alert when they lock onto Bruce’s face. “He’s going to get away, you can’t trust her, you have to-”

The heart monitor is beeping more rapidly now, likely to bring a nurse before Bruce can go talk to one. Bruce gently pries Jason’s fingers off his jacket, holding them between his hands instead. “Jason, it’s okay, calm down. I already got him.”

Jason shakes his head, crying out when his headache spikes. His breath is too fast and uneven, almost hyperventilating. “Something’s wrong,” he says desperately. “Bruce, my eyes, I can’t, I can’t-”

“Jason, you need to breathe,” Bruce says, tone skittering between soft and firm. He presses Jason’s hand against his chest. “Come on, Jaylad, do it with me. In. Out. That’s it, again. In… Out…”

A nurse is entering the room by the time Jason has calmed down. His complexion has gone ashen grey and he’s lying limp against the mattress, Bruce still hovering over him.

“What happened?” the nurse asks, already busying herself checking Jason’s vitals.

“He had a panic attack,” Bruce says. Then, unsure exactly who he’s reassuring, he adds, “He’s okay now.”

The nurse shines a penlight in Jason’s eyes and he flinches away. Bruce remembers what he was saying before, and what the doctor - Malloy, he checked - said about the skull fracture. He leans forward. “Jason. Your eyes, you said-”

The nurse is paying rapt attention, pen paused above the chart she’s adding notes to. Jason’s focus is solely on Bruce though as he whispers, “‘S all blurry. Bruce, I can’t see right. I can’t see.”

“Okay.” It’s not. It’s really not. But Bruce has to be in control, he has to… he has to be Jason’s dad right now, no matter how much he feels like he’s falling apart at the seams himself. He squeezes Jason’s fingers and promises, “We’ll figure it out. It’ll be okay.”

\--

The second time Jason wakes up properly, Bruce is out of the room getting coffee. He comes back to two nurses trying vainly to calm the panicked teen down. He's pulled out his IV and unstuck the wires from his chest to back himself into the corner of the room. Tears are streaming down his cheeks from wide eyes which flit around the room. It's hard to tell whether the tears are from pain or fear and Bruce's heart clenches; he hates that his son is feeling either of those things. Hates that he's feeling them when Bruce wasn't here to comfort him as soon as he woke up.

Bruce knows all too well the disjointed nightmares that a mind bogged down by heavy painkillers can conjure up. He doesn't have to think too hard to figure out what hellish images Jason's dreams might have been filled with. Those same hellish images will be haunting Bruce's own dreams for months, maybe years, to come.

"Jason," Bruce says. He crouches down, sets the styrofoam coffee cup out of the way and reaches for his son instead. "Jason, it's okay, I'm here."

Jason grabs his sleeve, breathless as he says, "I woke up an’ I couldn’t see right and you weren't there- Bruce, Sheila, she-"

"I know, Jaylad," Bruce soothes, gently pulling the teen against his chest. One of the nurses steps forward with a syringe and Bruce shakes his head at her. Jason is trembling in his arms, his whole body tense with pain, and Bruce winces when he thinks of the damage he might have done to his ribs by moving. "Come on," he says gently, "lets get you off the floor."

Jason uncurls slowly. He doesn't shake off Bruce's help when he carefully pulls him to his feet and guides him back to the hospital.

"Bruce?" he whispers, "What happened? I was with Sheila, she..." He sucks in a ragged breath. "The Joker, he was- did you get him? Bruce, please tell me you go him."

Bruce's stomach drops. "You don't remember?"

It could just be the medication, he tells himself, muddling Jason's thoughts. But he'd been so lucid last time, had seemed so aware during the conversation they had. _Skull fracture_ and _traumatic brain injury_ and _permanent damage_ are chasing each other around in dizzying circles in Bruce’s mind.

Jason frowns. "Remember what?"


	3. hollow head (filled with straw)

"Anterograde amnesia," the neurologist says, and the rest of his words are drowned out by the blood rushing in Bruce's ears. Anterograde amnesia. Jason can't form any new memories. Sudden nausea swirls in Bruce's stomach. His son is going to remember being beaten almost to death by the Joker for the rest of his life and he's not even going to be able to move past it because every day is going to feel like the day after it happened.

"Mr Wayne?"

The doctor is frowning at him. Bruce forces himself to breathe, to stay in the moment, to string together the right words for an appropriate response. "Is there any chance of recovery?" he asks, the words sounding distant to his own ears. He leans back against the wall, doesn't care whether he manages to make the movement feel casual or not. It feels like the floor has dropped out from under him.

_ Oh god, how am I going to tell Jason? _

_ How am I going to tell him  _ **_every day_ ** _? _

"That depends," the doctor replies. "If the amnesia is a result of the traumatic brain injury Jason suffered, chances of recovery are unlikely. However, since our initial CT scans showed no damage to any of the parts of the brain usually affected in cases of anterograde amnesia, there is a possibility it is the emotional trauma Jason suffered which is causing the amnesia. I have to tell you, Mr Wayne, that it is rare, especially with anterograde amnesia, but if that is the case, he may recover on his own or with therapy."

_ If. _ Bruce hates if. It leaves too much room for disappointment.

But it's better than a definite no.

\--

“Bruce?” Jason’s voice goes up at the end of the word. “Bruce!? What’s going on!?”

Bruce is sitting on the edge of the bed in seconds, leaning over Jason, pressing him back against the raised mattress, careful to avoid all the places with bandages. It doesn’t leave a lot of space to put his hands.

“You’re okay, Jaylad,” he soothes. “You’re in the hospital.”

“The Joker-”

“In prison. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Jason trembles. His eyes are wide. “My mother- Sheila, she- She didn’t want me, she let him-”

Bruce still doesn’t know exactly what happened but he’s put together enough from Jason’s distressed ramblings to know Sheila Haywood was not the woman either of them expected her to be. Bruce was prepared for her not to want a part in Jason’s life, not for her to be actively involved in ending it.

“I’m sorry,” Jason cries. “I’m sorry I ran away. I’m sorry I didn’t listen, I should have-“

“Shh,” Bruce murmurs, stroking Jason’s hair, just like he’s done the last three times Jason has woken up from nightmares and they’ve played out this scene. “Shh, it’s not your fault.” He clutches Jason tighter, wishes he could take away all the pain, all the trauma and grief. But he can’t. All he can do is hug Jason and whisper against his hair, “It’s not your fault.”

\--

Another day passes and Jason spends more and more time awake as his injuries begin to mend and the dosage of his pain medication is reduced. Bruce gets used to the questions. He writes out the answers in neat print so that someone can read them out if Jason wakes up while Bruce isn't there. Bruce tries to be there as much as possible, though, because leaving Jason alone in a hospital was unthinkable even before he discovered Jason would wake confused and distraught every time.

The staff are nice, but Bruce thinks it's the money he's not afraid to wave around which allows him to stay by his son’s side around the clock. He doesn't really care what causes the doctors and nurses to overlook hospital policy though because it means he's there, dozing fitfully, at three a.m. when Jason jolts out of a nightmare. Bruce is leaning over the bed immediately, pressing gently on Jason's shoulders to keep him lying down so he doesn't aggravate his injuries. The motion is automatic now.

"It's okay, Jay," he soothes, "It was just a dream, it's over now."

Jason shakes his head wildly. His fingers are white-knuckled where they twist into Bruce's shirt. "The Joker-"

"I know," Bruce says. "It's okay, I got him, he's in jail."

"And Sheila?" Jason demands. "She was working with him, she-"

_ I know, _ Bruce bites his lip on saying, _ I know what she did, you've already told me. Seven times.  _ Instead he says, "The authorities got her too. It's alright now, Jason, they can't hurt you anymore."

It's true but it feels useless saying it. Every time the words leave Bruce's mouth they feel more empty. The comfort they offer Jason is short-lived.

\--

It's hard to tell just how long Jason's memory lasts while he spends so much time sleeping, but as he spends more time awake, the neurologist visits more often and more tests are performed. Jason gets increasingly frustrated and irritable as they go on. Bruce feels like his own nerves are stretched taut and fraying; he can't imagine how much worse it is for Jason, being told that he's missing moments that he doesn't even know existed.

The headache he'd woken up with continues to plague him, coming and going as it pleases. After the first visit from the ophthalmologist, Jason pulls the pillow over his head and refuses to move. Bruce turns off the lights and closes the door to block out sound. He quietly offers to get a nurse to give Jason another dose of painkillers but Jason just shakes his head, groaning when it rattles his aching brain but refusing to change his mind. Bruce can't blame him, he doesn't like taking painkillers either, but he hates seeing his son in pain.

“I’m not going to be able to read,” Jason whispers through the dark that night. Only faint moonlight and the glow of hallway lights beneath the closed door light the room. Bruce isn’t sure it’s healthy that Jason prefers the dark these days because it’s harder to notice he can’t see properly when he can’t see at all without light. He’d tried to approach the subject once though and Jason had snapped that maybe it was just learned behaviour from his time with another creature of the night. 

“Your vision isn’t completely gone,” Bruce replies. “Doctor Smythe said glasses will return your acuity almost back to what it was.”

Jason is strangely pessimistic about it though. Bruce is so used to the boy who bounces back quickly, but the combination of physical and emotional trauma seems to be too much for him. He’s grumpy and weepy more often than he isn’t. Bruce feels like he’s treading water in the ocean, the bottom hundreds or thousands of metres below him, the water vacillating wildly between choppy and smooth. He wishes he knew how to help because it feels like all his reassurances are just being snatched away by the wind.

"Here," Doctor Smythe says the next morning. He hands Jason a pair of glasses. "These should help."

Jason puts them on and wrinkles his nose at his reflection when Bruce gets out his phone camera so he can see what he looks like. Bruce tussles his hair. "Don't look so glum, kiddo, they make you look intellectual."

"They make me look stupid," Jason complains, pulling off the frames. They're thin and a little too rounded for his face. The slight chubbiness of his face will surely thin before he’s out of his teens but for now it just reminds Bruce again of how young his son is. How young he almost lost him.

"We'll get you new frames," Bruce promises Jason. He’d promise him the whole world if he thought it would make Jason feel better. "In whatever colour you want."

"Green," Jason says immediately.

Bruce smiles. "Green it is."

For a moment, things look like they're going to be okay.

Until several hours later when Jason picks up the glasses sitting on the bedside table and asks, "Whose are these?"

\--

“Master Bruce?”

Bruce lifts his head from his hands. Alfred stops by the foot of the hospital bed, frowning down at the young boy sleeping in it. He’s dressed down in jeans and a turtleneck; this isn’t a visit as the family butler. Just a visit as family.

“You didn’t have to come,” Bruce says.

“Nonsense,” Alfred replies, and his voice is fierce. “Of course I came. The lad needs as much support as he can get right now.”

_ And so do you _ , he doesn’t say. Just having Alfred here feels like a weight off Bruce’s shoulders. Alfred will know what to do. Alfred always knows what to do. For the first time in days, Bruce breathes and it feels like the air is filling his lungs completely. 

And then Alfred asks, “Have you told Master Dick?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is still reading :) All your comments motivated me to get this edited and posted even though I'm in a bit of a slump right now.


	4. mend broken stone with healing prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~sorry if the prayer section is awkward I can only remember so much from catholic school masses~~

Bruce steps into the corridor to make the phone call. "Just in case the noise wakes Jason up _ ," _ he says.

Alfred doesn't call him on the lie. He doesn't need to have practically raised the man to see that he's barely holding himself together. Alfred is feeling more than a little ruffled himself, but he didn’t fly to Ethiopia to cry on Bruce’s shoulder. Rather the opposite, if it came to that. Alfred had his moment of weakness back in Gotham, followed by a shot of single malt scotch and fervent prayers to carry him through to now. 

While Bruce composes himself and calls his eldest son, Alfred flips through the chart at the end of Jason’s bed. He’d only received the bare, important details when Bruce called to say their trip had ended on a disastrous note.  _ The Joker. Beating. Hospital. Traumatic brain injury. Amnesia. _ The details filled in by the doctor’s messy scrawl are much more reassuring than Bruce’s ragged voice had been. If Alfred knows the extent of the harm suffered by the boy who is, in his heart if not by law, his grandson, then he can figure out the best way to help.

Now that he is here though, he feels little more than useless. 

The boy stirs, blinking groggily at Alfred’s silhouette by the window. “Bruce?” he mumbles.

“Good afternoon, young sir.”

Jason sits up a bit, surprise, maybe even a bit of joy, flickering across his face. "Alfie?" he asks, reaching for the glasses on the bedside table and jamming them on his nose like he won’t believe it until he can confirm it with at least two senses. “How… You were in Gotham.”

“I arrived not too long ago,” Alfred tells him. “I couldn’t stay at home twiddling my thumbs after I heard what happened.”

“But it’s a fourteen hour flight.” The confusion in Jason’s voice bites at Alfred’s heart. He adjusts the bed so he can sit properly upright, looking around wildly, distress bleeding through as he demands, “How long was I out? The Joker, did Bruce-?”

“That clown has been taken care of,” Alfred assures him, reaching out to place a calming hand on Jason’s shoulder. “As has Miss Haywood, I believe.”

Jason’s face falls at the mention of his mother before going carefully blank. “Oh,” he says quietly. “That’s good.”

And yet he sounds only melancholy. Alfred sighs sadly. He can’t help fussing with the blankets, smoothing them and tucking them neatly around Jason’s chest. Jason carefully lifts his broken arm to accommodate the mother henning. Alfred tuts. “Oh you poor boy.”

He gets a quick glance through messy bangs and then a faint grin crosses Jason’s lips as he says, “‘Tis but a scratch, Alfie.”

Alfred shakes his head, pursing his lips to contain the chuckle that wants to escape. “I see your humour is still in tact.”

“That’s about all that is,” Jason mumbles, low enough that Alfred probably isn’t meant to hear it. He pushes the glasses up to rub at his eyes.

Alfred feels a flash of blinding anger toward The Joker and Sheila Haywood. That they managed to beat Jason so thoroughly as to shatter his spirit as well as his bones… He forces his hands to uncurl from the fists they’ve formed. 

Jason notices and bites his lip. “Where’s Bruce?” he asks, picking at the edge of his cast.

“Just outside,” Alfred assures him. “I’ll go fetch him for you.”

Bruce is standing a few metres down the hallway, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, hair more unruly than it was before, no doubt from running his hands through it. A stress tic that he’s had ever since he was a young boy. Either Dick yelled at him or he hasn’t worked himself up to making the call yet.

“What did Master Dick have to say?” Alfred asks.

“I…” 

The latter, then. Alfred gently takes the phone from Bruce’s hand. “Jason is awake,” he says. “Why don’t you go sit with him? I’ll call Master Dick.”

The news might, perhaps, be received better coming from him.

\--

_ “Nightwing here.”  _ Wary. Confused. Expecting Bruce.

“Master Dick…” Alfred can’t quite bring himself to blurt out the bad news just yet. “How are you?”

_ “Alfred? I’m good.” _ The grin in his voice travels the miles and light years between them, bouncing through comm links and rerouted satellite signals to warm Alfred’s heart. _ “Kicking ass, saving the galaxy, you know, the usual.” _

“I’m glad to hear it.” And yet, he can’t drum up the appropriate cheer for that reply. 

_ “...is something wrong, Alfie?” _

Alfred sighs. Salutations and small talk can only delay his purpose for calling for so long. “There was… an incident. Master Jason has been hurt, and it’s rather bad.”

The grin is gone, replaced with hard concern.  _ “What happened?” _

“I can’t say much, it’s not a conversation for telephone lines-”

_ “Alfred. Was he-?” _

“Yes.” Alfred dips his chin toward his chest; stares down at a mark on the floor near his polished brown Oxfords. “It was the Joker.”

A sharp intake of breath.  _ “Is he okay?” _

Alfred hesitates too long.

_ “I’m coming home. I can be there in-” _ Something muffled, called away from the receiver. “ _ -a few days. Four, maybe.” _

As much as the response pleases Alfred (he had not thought Dick wouldn’t care but with his relationship with Bruce so strained these days…), he is not sure it is for the best either. There is no need to overwhelm Jason further. And there is no need for Bruce and Dick to butt heads while stress levels are already so high.“That is not necessary, Master Dick.”

_ “I can’t just- He’s my brother, Alfred. I’m coming home.” _

“Yes, I rather suppose he is.” Alfred sighs. “Alright. But do not hurry, it will be several days at least before we return to Gotham as well.”

_ “It didn’t happen in Gotham? What… what am I missing, Alfie?” _

A great deal. “Details can be explained when you arrive. The situation is not a straightforward one.”

“ _ Alfred? _ ” Hesitance solidifying to iciness. “ _ Bruce, did he-?” _

“The matter has not been discussed yet. There have been… complications.”

A pause.  _ “He’s going to be okay though. Right?” _

“I’m not sure, Master Dick, I’m really not sure.”

\--

_ Then they cried to the Lord in their trouble, and he saved them from their distress. He sent forth his word and healed them; he rescued them from the grave. Let them give thanks to the Lord for his unfailing love and his wonderful deeds for men. _

Alfred mouths the passage as he reads from the dog-eared pocket bible he’s been carrying around longer than Bruce has been alive. It’s a passage he knows by heart, having included it in many a bedside prayer for the vigilantes in his care, but reading it from the thin pages of the worn, cloth-bound book is more comforting than reciting from memory.

He’d come back to the hotel to fetch a change of clothes for Bruce and Jason’s earbuds so he could, as the young master had put it, “drown out B’s brooding” with one of the audiobooks Bruce downloaded onto his phone yesterday. But Alfred finds himself taking an extra moment in the quiet of the hotel room to give into his emotions. Alfred thinks of Jason, pale and thin beneath the bandages and contusions, usually infectious smile dim below the new glasses sitting crooked on his nose. He thinks of Bruce, nerves frazzled from worry and fear, dark smudges under his eyes from days without rest. He bows his head to pray.

“O gracious Lord,” he murmurs, “I call upon your love in this time of need. Please… I do not ask for much, but I ask that you heal my grandson. Reach out with your compassion and restore his mind, return to him the blessing of creating new memories. And... I know that it is selfish, but I ask that you make sure the ones who hurt him pay for their sins.”

_ Or I shall have to do it myself. _

Alfred’s phone buzzes with a text and he lifts his head to check it. 

**[From: Bruce] Can you grab yoghurt on your way back? Blueberry.**

**[From: Bruce] No, strawberry. He changed his mind.**

Duty calls. Alfred carefully tucks away his bible and dabs at his eyes with a handkerchief. Then he collects what he came for and heads back out to return to the hospital, hoping that his prayers will not go unanswered. 

\--

The days settle into a routine. Bruce sleeps at the hospital, unwilling to leave Jason alone, and Alfred brings him coffee in the morning and scolds him about the permanent crick he’s getting in his neck. Sometimes, if Jason is having a good day, Alfred manages to chase Bruce away to the hotel for a nap in a proper bed. Today is one of those days, and Alfred is laying out cards for a game of solitaire when Jason stirs. He’d been awake earlier, eating yogurt and complaining to Bruce about missing school when Alfred arrived at the hospital, but he still tires easily and had dozed off shortly after Bruce left. 

“Good afternoon,” Alfred says, mentally preparing himself to answer the questions that have become part of the routine. 

Jason blinks slowly and fumbles for the glasses on his bedside table. “Alfie? ‘s Bruce still gone?”

“Yes, and he better be-” Alfred stops. He drops the card in his hand, uncaring of where it lands. “I’m sorry, young sir, did you you say ‘still’?”

Jason frowns at him. “Yeah? You sent him back to the hotel earlier… right?”

“You remember.” The words are barely audible, breathed out on a wave of relief that leaves Alfred feeling heady. It’s enough to almost make him weep with joy and he blinks rapidly to dispel the wetness from his eyes. Jason is still looking at him like he’s grown a second head, and a tail and gills to boot. 

_ Thank you Lord _ , Alfred silently prays, and then he hits Bruce’s number and lifts the phone to his ear to finally deliver some happy news.

\--

Alfred steps into the hall and pulls the door shut behind him to meet Bruce while a nurse takes Jason’s vitals and asks him a few questions to make sure his memory really has been fixed. 

“You will not interrogate that boy,” he says sternly. “And you will not lecture him about following orders, nor will there be discussions about the future of Robin, not as long as Jason is still laid up in a hospital bed. Do you understand me?”

A muscle in Bruce’s jaw ticks but he nods. “It can wait,” he agrees, and even though Alfred suspects it’s just because he’s impatient to go in and see Jason, he accepts the words at face value. He leads the way back into the hospital room.

“Bruce!” Jason exclaims as soon as he sees them, sounding relieved to have his dad around. “Jake says I’ve been here over a week but I don’t remember any of it.”

The nurse, Jake, nods when Bruce glances at him. “His amnesia seems to be gone, but it’s unlikely he’ll ever recover the memories his mind was unable to properly form.”

Alfred catches Jake’s attention while Bruce moves forward to sit on the edge of Jason’s bed and answer his curious questions, shoulders drooping without the tension that’s been holding them up for the past week and a relieved smile in his eyes.

“How sure are you the amnesia is gone?” he asks. 

“Pretty sure. He remembered everything from this morning, both the last time he was awake for breakfast and when I came in on my rounds about two hours before that,” Jake says. “The doctor will do a more thorough test before he’s released, but unless there are further complications, Jason should be able to go home soon.”

“Thank you.” 

Bruce and the notes on Jason’s chart had suggested the amnesia was due to the emotional trauma he experienced rather than the brain injury and, with the somewhat spontaneous recovery, Alfred is relieved that seems to be the case. He makes a mental note to contact Leslie about finding a therapist for Jason to talk to when they go home. For now, though, he moves over to Jason with a smile, allowing himself to push aside the to-do list constantly running through his head and enjoy the moment.

Jason looks up at him, eyes brighter than they have been since Alfred arrived four days ago. “Since my memory is back, does that mean I can go home?” he asks. Bruce and Alfred share looks. By now, they’re all well and truly sick of Ethiopia, hospitals and the memories they both hold.

Alfred pats Jason’s shoulder. “Yes, Master Jason, you can go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought of this chapter :)
> 
> Final chapter will be up either over the weekend or early next week.


	5. walk not alone beneath fading stars

Jason is irritable by the time they land in Gotham. He’s sore and tired, even after being asleep for most of the flight. He snaps at Alfred when the butler tries to help him prepare to disembark, then immediately feels so bad he almost starts crying. Painkillers and trauma, it turns out, are a deadly combination for emotional stability. 

The drive back to the Manor is tense and silent. Jason knows Bruce wants to talk but he shoves his earbuds in and stubbornly looks out the window at the cityscape that crawls by. He knows there’s a lecture coming and it’s put him on the edge of his seat since they left the hospital. Torn between wanting to confront it head on, get it over with, and wanting to find the smallest crevice to crawl into and hide. 

Instead, he slinks quietly upstairs as soon as they get home. It’s strange, that his suitcase feels heavier coming back, without the heavily padded Robin suit stuffed in the bottom, than it did when Jason ran away. He drops it on the floor at the end of his bed and sinks down onto the forest green comforter. 

_I guess I know where I get my green eyes from now._

Jason screws his eyes shut. No. He doesn’t want to think about that. Doesn’t want to think about _her_. 

There’s a black throw rug on the end of the bed. Jason drags it up over his head, curling up as much as he can with broken ribs and ignoring the pain. There’s a stuffed bear up by his pillows, something he doesn’t recognise that smells vaguely of lavender, and he pulls that down to hug to his chest. Buries his face in the silky soft fur and tries to push green eyes and short curls and the cloying smell of cigarette smoke out of his mind.

A soft knock on his door and then the slight squeak of shoes on carpet as Bruce steps inside. “Are you asleep?” he asks, the way parents do when they know their child isn’t.

“Yes,” Jason mumbles. 

Bruce sighs. “Okay. Goodnight, Jaylad.”

Jason is drifting off before he can argue that it’s still only afternoon.

\--

Smoke is swirling around him, obscuring his vision, sucking the air out of his lungs. Jason runs through it desperately, chasing a shimmering phantom who keeps letting him get close enough to hope he’ll reach her before turning around another stack of crates and disappearing.

“Mum!” Jason calls. “Mum, where-”

“Surprise,” a voice whispers behind him and Jason whirls around too late to stop the blow that flings him like a rag-doll. He tries to get up, tries to fight, but the Joker is always there, swinging and hitting and _laughing_. 

Jason tries to press his hands over his ears but the manic laughter echoes around him. It’s louder than the furious thudding of his heart, trying to pump blood that’s just oozing out onto the concrete.

_I’m going to die._

“Batman!” Jason screams. “Bruce! Help me!”

He sees a black cape flutter in the corner of his eye. Hope stirs in his chest. Bruce came. He’s here. Everything’s okay. _I’m not going to die_. And then-

_Boom._

—

Jason wakes with a gasp, bolting upright in bed. His eyes track a monster he can’t see anymore, flitting around the darkened room for signs of green hair or that sickening smile. Hands reach out of the shadows toward him and Jason flinches, pushing back against the headboard.

“Easy, Jay, you’re okay,” a voice murmurs. Warm, soothing, rough, like honey poured over gravel. Arms wrapping around him, pulling him into a hug. “I’ve got you, you’re okay, it’s over now, Jaylad, you’re okay.”

“Bruce,” Jason breathes. And then he’s sobbing in his dad’s arms, clutching tightly at Bruce’s sweater, making a mess of the charcoal cashmere. Bruce rubs his back and holds him close, keeping up the litany of soothing words.

Even with a week he can’t remember, nights like this are becoming familiar. Jason waking up from a version of that same twisted nightmare, Bruce being there to comfort him, both of them sitting up the rest of the night until sun peeks through the curtains and Jason pretends the nightmare has vanished with the darkness. He wishes they would just go away, wishes he could forget about that pale face and that stomach-turning laughter, wishes he didn’t relive it every time his broken ribs ached. Wishes it had never happened in the first place.

The Joker isn’t even the worst part though. As haunting as that blood-red grin is, that glee-filled voice taunting him, it has nothing on the uncaring wisps of cigarette smoke which burn his nostrils. Jason always wakes up struggling to breath through the acrid scent of betrayal.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bruce asks.

Jason shakes his head. “I don’t remember what it was about,” he lies. Doesn’t care that not remembering is a touchy subject with Bruce these days. 

“Alright.” There’s a pregnant pause and then, when Jason stays still and silent save for the occasional sniffle, Bruce says, “Alfred sent me up to wake you for dinner.”

Jason isn’t hungry. But he’s also not eager to try going back to sleep just yet.

“Okay,” he says. (Nothing is okay.) “I’ll be down in a moment.”

\--

The atmosphere during dinner is as tense as the pasta bake is delicious. But it’s nothing compared to the minutes after Alfred has cleared the plates and Bruce stands up to leave the table.

“You’re going on patrol?” Jason asks, then immediately bites his lip, wishing he hadn’t. Batman and Robin is exactly what he’s been avoiding talking about, unwilling to discuss the status of Robin in particular, but habit had allowed the words to slip out.

“Yes,” Bruce says, and that should be the end of it, but he’s still paused beside his chair, frowning down at Jason. “Unless you need…”

“No,” Jason says. He plays with his hoodie string, resolutely not looking at Bruce. “I’m fine. But I… I can man the comms, or do stuff on the computer, or…”

There’s a long pause before Bruce answers. “You’ve had a long day, you should get some rest. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Jason agrees, but it feels hollow. He’s tired, both mentally and physically, but he’s sick of resting. It just feels like an excuse. _Go and rest Jason and we’ll talk about whether you can still be Robin when you’re better. Go and rest Jason because I don’t trust you to help me anymore because you didn’t follow an order in the field. Go and rest Jason because you almost **died**._ He shakes his head to dispel the intruding thoughts. Surely Bruce won’t fire him for getting hurt trying to rescue his mum.

Right?

Bruce’s hand touches his shoulder briefly on his way out of the room. “Goodnight, Jay,” he says. 

“Night,” Jason echoes. But by the time he says it the room is already empty.

\--

Jason moves slowly down the hallway. It’s been almost two weeks since… since the beating, but he still feels like one giant, aching bruise. The dose of pain medication he took before bed must have worn off while he tossed and turned because he’d jolted awake in pain and no more rested than he was before he went to sleep. It’s after four in the morning so the Manor is dark and silent. Jason had peeked into Bruce’s room on his way past, hoping he’d be able to send Bruce down for an ice pack for his ribs and maybe a mug of camomile as well, but the covers had been neatly made. Bruce was either still out on patrol or busy in the cave.

Halfway down the stairs, a figure appears in the darkness below. Jason tenses, wincing when it makes his ribs throb, then forces himself to relax. The Manor is as secure as a home can be, more secure even, and its inhabitants are prone to walking around during the darkest hours of the night.

“Bruce?” he calls.

The figure stops and Jason realises it’s not Bruce, tenses up again, preparing to throw himself into a fight, a second before Dick’s voice floats up the stairs. “Jason? What are you- Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Shouldn’t you be in Bludhaven?” Jason retorts.

Dick’s wince is almost tangible in the silence that follows. “Alfred called,” he says, ascending the stairs until he’s level with Jason. His voice is laced with too much sympathy for Jason’s liking. “He told me what happened. I’m sorry.”

Jason crosses his arms. As much as he can with one in a cast and sling. It puts pressure on his ribs but he ignores the pain. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Dick says easily. Almost too easily. “Did you need something? I can-”

“Don’t touch me,” Jason snaps, pulling his arm away roughly when Dick reaches for it. Dick backs off, holds up his hands in surrender then lets them fall, limp, by his sides. Jason glares at him. “Why are even here, huh? Why do you suddenly want to help?”

“You’re my brother, Jay, I care about you.”

Jason snorts. “Sure.”

If Dick really cared, if he really wanted to be the big brother he’s pretending he is now, then it shouldn’t have taken Jason almost dying for him to visit. 

Dick stuffs his hands in his pockets. He rocks back on his heels and, for a moment, in the glint of moonlight off a framed painting, Jason thinks the expression on his face is wounded. Then it’s gone and Dick’s voice is it’s usual annoying good humour when he asks, “Did you like the bear?”

Bear? Oh. Must be the lavender scented one on his pillow that he hadn’t recognised. Jason shrugs. He had liked it but he isn’t feeling charitable enough to admit that to Dick right now.

“I would’ve sent it to the hospital, but Alfred said you’d be home soon so…”

Awkward silence falls over them but Jason doesn’t care to break it or try to make it more comfortable. He shifts and his ribs remind him why he was walking down the stairs at four-thirty in the morning.

“Thanks,” he says because maybe that will end the conversation. Then he can shuffle past Dick to get that ice pack and let the numbing cold seep into his bones.

Dick tilts his head, studying Jason in the dark. “I know I’ve been pretty terrible at being there for you,” he says quietly. “But I’m here now, and I want to help.”

_Just ask him to get you an ice pack_ , a part of Jason says. And it’s tempting, really tempting, because Jason is sore and tired and he just wants to sit down and not move for a while. Not think or feel for a while either. But then another part of his mind reminds him that his track record with letting people in lately has not been great. He doesn’t think Dick is going to turn around and stab him in the back but...

“I don’t need your help,” Jason says. He doesn’t want it. Right now, more than anything, he just wants to be alone. Away from suffocating coddling and well-meaning but irritating concern. He just wants… He wants things to be like they were before he found out his mother didn’t care for his existence so much she watched while the Joker almost killed him. He just wants everything to be normal again.

The smile Dick gives him in response looks fake. “Okay. Well if you change your mind, I’m going to be staying for a few days.”

Jason watches his brother disappear up the stairs and feels like an ass. Maybe tomorrow he’ll get over himself enough to apologise, maybe even ask Dick to keep him company while he wills away boredom with crappy daytime television. 

He goes to the kitchen and pull the first ice pack he sees out of the freezer. Then Jason climbs the stairs alone and sits in the dark on his bed until orange sunlight slices through the room, dust motes swirling in its beams like fine wisps of smoke.

\--

The archive box is sitting where he left it beside his desk. Some of the personal belongings are still scattered across the desk surface, the document that started his trek across the world, that ended with him back here missing more than he started with, among them. Jason picks it up from under the copy of _The Hollow Men_ he was meant to read for school and sinks into his desk chair.

Ten days ago he found his mother.

Ten days ago his mother betrayed him to the Joker.

Ten days ago he almost died.

Jason's hands shake. His chest aches from a pain that not even morphine could ease. That scribbled out name on the birth certificate mocks him. With a vicious snarl he tears the paper, ripping and shredding until scattered pieces litter the floor around him. Then he drops his head in his hands and weeps.

And when his tears are spent he doesn’t feel better, but he doesn’t feel worse either. He just feels hollow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said this would the final chapter but it no longer is. Epilogue will be up toward the end of the week :)


	6. lean together in the kingdom where life is very long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DC doesn't know what a therapist is so I made my own. Sandra Hale is mine, everything else is of course not.

**_***Five Weeks Later_ ** _ *** _

Jason chews on the end of his hoodie sleeve, staring out the window. From here he can see Alfred out in the garden, wrestling with a madly flapping burlap cloth that’s come loose from the tree it was protecting in the gale-force wind. A strong gust that rattles the window panes rips the material out of the butler’s hands and he only manages to catch it when it gets caught on another tree. Jason watches him trudge back to the tree it came off and tie it back down. 

The sky overhead is dark and gloomy, swelling with angry storm clouds. The first echoes of thunder ripple through the air and Jason thinks he should be outside helping Alfred before the torrential rains that have been predicted hit. But it’s Tuesday afternoon, so he’s in a cozy sitting room in the west wing instead, not making use of the hour he has to speak with the therapist Doctor Thompkins found and Bruce vetted.

Sandra Hale seems nice enough, but today Jason just doesn’t feel like talking. He hadn’t slept well, kept awake by the threat of nightmares then woken screaming from them when sleep finally claimed him. Last night had been a weird one, not the distorted replay of That Day which has been plaguing him for the last month and a half. He’d been perched on a gargoyle high above Gotham, steady in the wind that whistled through the tattered remains of his uniform. He hadn’t been alone though, his mother Sheila had been there, leaning out from the wide, decorative ledge of Old Wayne Tower. Jason had been worried she would fall, but Sheila had been calm and steady.

“Trust me,” she’d whispered, warm breath like curling smoke against the shell of Jason’s ear. “Trust me, Jason, I’m your mother.”

Jason had smiled over his shoulder at her. “Why wouldn’t I trust you?” he’d asked.

And Sheila’s grin had split her face a second before she pushed him.

He hadn’t hit the ground, not that he remembers. Instead the scene had jumped to the Cave, Jason lying flat on his back on the hard concrete floor. Bruce had been standing over him, cape draped across his shoulders and cowl over his face but otherwise in civvies. He’d shaken his head in disappointment. “This is why you can’t be Robin anymore.”

That’s the part where he woke up.

Jason shudders at the tendrils of the dream still clinging to him. It’s exactly the kind of thing he should be discussing with Sandra, but he doesn’t need a therapist to tell him what it means. And if he brings it up, he knows what she’ll say. She’ll suggest he talk to Bruce. Previous attempts to talk to Bruce about resuming patrols with Batman did not gone well though. He hadn’t outright said Jason couldn’t be Robin again, but he also hadn’t said he could. And it feels like every week that passes, every conversation that is danced around, brings Jason closer to losing Robin for good. Just thinking about it makes his heart ache.

So Jason stares out the window and doesn’t say anything.

Sandra had started talking about something when she realised he wasn’t going to respond to her questions. Her dog maybe? Jason wonders whether she knew that he wasn’t listening because she’s silent now. When he glances over at her, he finds she’s watching him.

“Something on your mind, Jason?” she asks.

Jason shrugs. Lightning splits the sky, followed a second later by a loud crack of thunder that makes Jason jump. 

“I used to be scared of storms,” Sandra says as the rumbles die out. “Not just the noise, but the suddenness of them. No matter how many black clouds are in the sky, you’re never really prepared for that first flash of lightning or crack of thunder.”

Rain lashes against the window. Jason says, “I’m not scared of storms.”

“Are you scared of something else?”

Jason bits his lip. It’s not even four p.m. yet but it already looks like night is encroaching outside. Alfred will serve dinner earlier than he does in the summer months and Batman and Robin will take advantage of the longer nighttime to hit the streets early. Not today though. Today it will just be Batman.

“Yes,” Jason whispers. “I’m afraid of losing Robin.”

“Do you think that’s going to happen?” Sandra asks.

The scene out the window is wet and blurry from more than just the rain now. Jason blinks rapidly.  _ Yes. _ “I don’t know.”

—

Blue light flickers around the den. The power went out an hour ago but Alfred had turned the generator on before Jason could miss even five minutes of the Star Trek: The Next Generation reruns that he’s been watching since Alfred chased him out of the kitchen after helping wash the dishes from dinner. Jason hadn’t bothered bringing up the question of Robin going out tonight. Even if the weather wasn’t so wretched, he’s sure Bruce would have said no. Again.

It’s been a month since they came home, the cast is off Jason’s arm, and his ribs are only aching today because of the cold weather, but Robin is still benched indefinitely. The only real talk they’d had about it, the day Jason had his cast removed, had ended in an explosive argument. Jason had cried himself to sleep that night and the next day Bruce had gone off-world for six days. 

He returned this morning.

Jason has been avoiding him.

It helps that Dick is here to act as a buffer. He came home on Sunday with a duffel full of dirty laundry and hasn’t left since. It’s the third such trip since Jason returned from Ethiopia and it’s a little weird having him around so often after years of it mostly just being Bruce, Alfred and Jason, but it’s not unpleasant. At the very least, Jason has to give him points for actually trying to be a better big brother. 

Getting into arguments with Bruce on Jason’s behalf seems to be another part of that trying which Jason isn’t so keen on. He can fight his own battles. He doesn’t need Dick to stand up for him. And he certainly doesn’t want Bruce and Dick fighting over him. It’s hard to miss the harsh voices that have disturbed the still air of the old house recently. Jason has heard enough snatches of conversation - “Robin” and “fired” and “that worked out well for you last time didn’t it?” - to know he doesn’t like it. He wishes they’d stop. Bruce is stubborn, though, and Dick seems determined to stick up for Jason.

Speak of the devil…

“Hey shorty,” Dick says, flopping down beside him. “I was thinking-“

“Did it hurt?”

Dick gently elbows Jason in the side and continues as though he hadn’t been interrupted. “It’s shit weather for patrolling and I was going to go back to Bludhaven tonight but the storm has me stuck here, so maybe we could have a movie night?”

Jason considers. Hang out with Dick watching movies and eating popcorn, or mope by himself. Not that he  _ is _ moping, that’s just what Alfred thinks. He’s not brooding either. Or sulking. He’s… trying to think through the problem while trying not to think about it at all. Like shoving a trinket to the back of his sock draw, out of sight and mind, but sneaking back to pull it out and look at it again and again.

“Fine,” Jason agrees. “Something funny.”

He expects Dick to choose a Disney movie or some other mindless kids film that is humorous but not really funny. He’s surprised, then, when the opening credits for Monty Python’s  _ The Holy Grail _ appear on the screen. He glances sideways at his brother, suddenly wondering whether Alfred put him up to this, but Dick doesn’t give any clues that he did as he settles into his seat on the other end of the couch. He’s already grinning at the parodical credits. 

Jason relaxes. Monty Python is funny, ridiculous, just the sort of thing to keep his mind occupied. He smiles and laughs through the first half hour. Then the narrator announces the tale of Sir Robin and music fills the room from the surround sound. Dick begins to sing along with the morbid yet jaunty tune. 

_ “Bravely bold Sir Robin _

_ Rode forth from Camelot. _

_ He was not afraid to die, _

_ Oh brave Sir Robin.” _

The room suddenly, inexplicably, smells like cigarette smoke. The notes of the flute sound like manic laughter. 

_ "He was not in the least bit scared _

_ To be mashed into a pulp. _

_ Or to have his eyes gouged out, _

_ And his elbows broken." _

Jason scrambles for the remote and jams the off button. 

Dick’s singing breaks off abruptly. “Hey, what the hell Jay!?”

Jason’s fingers are trembling. He clenches them around the remote until his knuckles turn white. “I don’t want to watch it anymore.”

The song seems to echo in the silence though, the tune worming into his bones, conjuring the next lines he’s unwittingly memorised from many Monty Python marathons. 

_ "To have his kneecaps split _

_ And his body burned away, _

_ And his limbs all hacked and mangled _

_ Brave Sir Robin." _

Jason can’t believe he forgot about the song. Forgot about Sir Robin. When was the last time he saw the movie? Months ago. More than six. He’d had the flu, Bruce had stayed home from patrol and they’d watched it together. Jason had giggled and snickered until he forgot how miserable he’d been feeling.

_ "His head smashed in _

_ And his heart cut out" _

He feels sick now. He rubs at his chest, which feels suddenly tight. His heart is pounding. His arms feel weak and trembly. 

“Jay?” 

He blinks and Dick is kneeling in front of him. He puts his hand on Jason’s knee.

“Jay, can you look at me? I think you’re having a panic attack.”

Jason shakes his head. He’s not sure what he’s saying no to. He can’t breathe.

“Take a deep breath for me. You can do it, come on. Yeah, like that, good. Try it again and hold it for four seconds.”

Dick’s voice is low and soothing. Jason tries to focus on it instead of the laughter bouncing around inside his head. He counts in his head with Dick:  _ one, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. _ He doesn’t know how many times he counts but it feels like hours have passed, time hollowing him out and leaving him empty and weak, before his breathing is closer to normal and his heart isn’t thumping quite so hard.

“The song?” Dick asks. 

Jason nods.

“Was it Robin? Or-“

“Both.” 

The room is dark without the light from the TV.  Jason takes another deep breath, much more even this time. He can hear Dick’s quiet breathing in front of him. Neither of them move for several minutes.

Then Dick gets up, sits beside Jason, close enough that their shoulders brush. He says, “Did you know Bruce fired me once? Twice, actually.”

Jason looks at him sharply. 

“The first time, I hadn’t even been Robin for a year. One night Two-Face almost killed me and when I woke up B told me Robin was no more.”

“But… he gave it back.”

Dick chuckles. “I didn’t really give him much of a choice. I made it clear I was going to help people either as his partner or by myself. The second time he fired me… I was almost eighteen. The Joker shot me. It could’ve been worse but it freaked B out. We argued, it was ugly, but we figured it out.”

Jason frowns. He vaguely knows that bit. Reports that Robin was dead were all over the news for weeks. “You weren’t Robin again though,” he says. How could they have figured it out if Dick did have Robin taken away for good?

“Because I realised I’d grown out of it,” Dick says. “Bruce had taught me all I needed to know to be my own hero, so when he insisted on retiring Robin, I agreed. He wasn’t happy when he found out I created the Nightwing identity not long after, but he couldn’t stop me.”

“You’re saying I shouldn’t be Robin anymore?”

Dick shakes his head, bumps his shoulder against Jason’s. “No, I’m saying you don’t  _ have _ to be Robin to help people. There are other options.”

“But I want to be Robin. Robin gives me magic.”

“That’s okay too,” Dick says. “If you want to be Robin, that’s your choice. Yours. Got it? Don’t let Bruce make it for you.”

Jason chews on his lip, thinking that over. “Okay,” he says after a moment. He bumps Dick’s shoulder back, ends up leaning into his brother a little. “Thank you.”

Dick ruffles his hair. “No problem, Little Wing. Now what do you say we put another movie on? I think I saw Mary Poppins on the shelf somewhere…”

—

The storm died down a lot overnight but the day is another dark, soggy one. Bitter wind continues to rattle the old manor and Jason relishes the warm air pumped out by the oven beside his legs as he chops potatoes into rough quarters. The radio on the window sill is crackling through a weather report, warning the citizens of Gotham and surrounding areas about the strong winds and heavy rains that are expected to continue throughout the next few days. Another storm will probably roll in by the end of the week.

“D’you think it’ll flood?” Jason asks idly, dumping the chopped potatoes into a saucepan and covering them with water to boil.

Alfred looks up from the mixture he’s rolling into balls, ready to be lined up on trays and put in the oven. Jason’s mouth is already watering at the thought of the fresh, gooey chocolate chip cookies, snuck off the tray while they’re still warm from the oven. 

“Hmm, maybe,” Alfred replies, looking out the window. He fills one of the trays with perfectly spaced balls of dough and picks it up. “Open that oven please, young sir.”

Jason sets down his saucepan on the stove and pulls open the oven, stepping back from the gust of hot air that blows out. His vision goes white as his glasses fog over and he pulls them off and rubs them on his shirt with a grimace. It’s still taking some getting used to wearing glasses. It’s no longer that the pressure across his nose feels weird, but rather that it doesn’t. Often he’ll forget they’re there while he’s preoccupied, until he jostles them or they slip down when he bends over or the lenses fog over. At least these frames are better than the ones he was given in the hospital. Dark grey and turbid blue-green, thicker and more square. Even though Alfred bought him contact lenses as well when they went to pick the new frames out, Jason prefers the glasses. He’ll keep the contacts just for patrolling; it’ll be good for keeping his identity secret. 

(If - no, when he gets to patrol again.)

“Carrots next,” Alfred says, leaning past Jason to inspect the potatoes. “Then celery.”

Jason moves onto the next lot of vegetables. When Alfred had said he was going to make shepherd’s pie for dinner, Jason had offered to help immediately, eager to both feel useful and distract himself from the thoughts that have been swirling in his mind since his conversation with Dick last night. The point that really stuck out to him is that Bruce can’t stop him from helping people. If he takes away Robin, Jason will just find another way. A new costume. A new alter ego. 

The knife slips, almost slicing Jason’s thumb and he winces, gaze darting to Alfred to make sure he didn’t see it. The butler is preoccupied jotting something down on a notepad with his back to Jason. Jason scrapes the diced carrots into a bowl and reaches for the celery. 

Trading the Robin identity for a new one wouldn’t be as easy as Dick made it seem though. Jason isn’t ready to let go of Robin. It was, is, the best thing to ever happen to him. 

_ Okay then, _ Jason thinks resolutely,  _ I’ll just make sure B doesn’t take Robin away from me. _

—

This time, Jason doesn’t wait around after dinner to be told to stay in again. He cites homework and disappears from the dining room as soon as his plate is empty, but he doesn’t go up to his room. He goes into the parlour and deftly twists the hands on the grandfather’s clock, fingers moving through the motions on muscle memory. The Cave is dark and chilly and Jason shivers automatically after the heat of the Manor. 

The Robin uniform he’d taken overseas is ruined and probably incinerated, but there are spares in the locker room. Jason grabs one out and pulls it on, relishing the feeling of being Robin for the first time in over a month. It’s like electricity crackling across his skin. Like dopamine flooding through his bloodstream. Like magic.

Jason grins.

He’s waiting by the Batmobile when Bruce approaches to leave for patrol. His expression is hard to read beneath the cowl, but he freezes as soon as he sees Jason. “Take that off.”

Jason plants his feet, shoulders squared, chin tipped up so he can glare at the white lenses that stare back at him. “No.”

“You’re not coming out.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No,” Bruce growls, “you’re not. You’re still healing.”

“I’m healed enough,” Jason argues. “Doc Thompkins cleared me for light patrols when she took my cast off.”

_ “Jason.” _ Bruce steps forward and Jason flinches. He curses himself immediately; he’s not afraid of Bruce. It’s been a long time since he reacted like that to someone angry. He’s just so high-strung, on edge, anxious and jittery with the adrenaline that’s making his pulse jump rapidly below his jaw. 

Bruce shifts his weight back. “Jason,” he repeats with forced evenness. “We can talk about this tomorrow.”

“You always say that!” Jason snaps. “It’s always later, or tomorrow, or  _ never _ . I’m sick of it. I want to talk about this  _ now _ .”

For a long moment, the Cave is dead silent, crackling with tension that not even Superman’s heat vision could slice through. Then Bruce steps around Jason to get to the Batmobile. Something like choked, hysterical laughter bubbles in Jason’s chest but he squashes it down. Bruce is ignoring him. He can’t believe it, he’s really going to just ignore him. Hot tears burn behind Jason’s eyes and he’s glad Bruce can’t see them behind the mask even though he surely knows they’re there from the thickness of Jason’s voice.

“If you’re going to fire me, just do it already!”

Bruce halts a step from the car. He pivots slowly, scrutinising Jason from behind Batman’s unforgiving lenses. When he speaks, it’s low and rigid. “Jason…” 

Jason glares back from behind his own mask. “You can’t stop me from being a hero, Bruce.”

“I know!” Bruce fairly shouts, the sound so loud and so sudden that Jason jumps. He takes a ragged breath and lowers his voice, but it’s still hard and biting. “Dammit, Jason, I know. Why do you think I’ve been putting this discussion off? Because I knew as soon as we talked about it, you’d go out with my blessing, or you’d go out in defiance without it.”

Jason doesn’t understand. He can still only see Bruce’s mouth beneath the cowl, twisted into a grimace. Bruce exhales heavily, like his lungs are a balloon that’s just been popped, the air whooshing out of them in a noisy rush. 

“You almost  _ died _ , Jason. If I had been a second later-“

“I know I screwed up, okay!?” Jason yells back. His voice splinters, brittle with anger and tears. “You told me to wait for you and I didn’t listen, I ran headlong into danger thinking with my heart instead of my head and it almost got me killed. I fucked up, I get it! I wouldn’t want me as a partner either! But the least you can do is say that to my damn face.” 

Jason tears his domino mask off and tears, no longer trapped by the lenses, slide unhindered down his cheeks, their salt stinging the split in his lip from hours of anxious biting. He turns away, swiping angrily at his eyes, but large arms reach out and turn him back, pulling him until he’s crushed against a hard, bat-emblazoned chest. Jason struggles, futilely, for a few seconds before giving up and collapsing into the hold.

No, the hug.

“You didn’t screw up,” Bruce says softly but fiercely. “What happened was not your fault, you did nothing wrong.”

Jason sniffs. He tries to suck in a breath but he can’t get control of the sobs shuddering through his chest. He can’t reconcile Bruce’s words, his actions, with those from a moment ago. “You’re n-not mad at me?” 

Bruce’s hand is warm and gentle where it cradles the back of Jason’s head, right over the spot the Joker had dented his skull with a crowbar.  “I’m not mad at you, Jay. There’s nothing to be mad about.”

“I just wan’ed to help my m-mum.”

“I know, Jay.” The words rumble through Bruce’s chest and into Jason’s. “It’s okay, you’re not in trouble. I’m… I’m sorry I made you think you were. I was worried, I don’t… I don’t want to take Robin away, I know what it means to you, but-“ the arm around Jason’s back tightens “-god, you almost  _ died _ , Jason. I don’t want that to happen again.”

Jason opens his mouth. All that comes out are hiccuping sobs. Bruce isn’t angry that he didn’t stay put outside the warehouse? He’s just worried because Jason got hurt?

“B-but,” he manages to stutter out through quivering lips, “I’ve gotten hurt bef-fore.”

Bruce shakes his head, Jason feels it against the top of his own head. “Every time you or Dick have gotten hurt I’ve questioned my decision to let you into this life,” he confesses, “but you’ve always shaken it off like you weren’t fazed at all. You almost couldn’t shake it off this time, Jay.”

“But…”

A sigh. “But I can’t stop you.”

Jason pulls out of the hug just enough to peek hopefully up at Bruce through the curls falling over his eyes. “I can still be Robin?”

Bruce squeezes his shoulder. “With conditions.”

—

“I think the helmet is a bit too much.”

Bruce frowns, appraising the helmet critically. It’s bright green, matching Robin’s boots. “It will protect your head.”

Jason huffs. “But it looks stupid.”

“But it will keep your head protected.”

“ _ Bruuce _ .”

“ _ Jaason _ .”

The standoff stretches out. The buckle of the helmet pinches at Jason’s neck. Bruce crosses one ankle over the other and leans back against the desk. It’s like the day Bruce took him to a tailor for the first time to get a suit fitted, except this time Jason is standing in the middle of the Batcave and Alfred is the one sticking needles dangerously close to his skin. Two days since Bruce said Jason could still be Robin and the butler had pulled a new, modified uniform out of thin air.

“No helmet but I won’t whine about how hot the extra armour is in summer,” he bargains.

Bruce remains stoic.

“No helmet, I won’t whine  _ and _ I’ll do all the extra training you want.”

“Extra training was already on the table.” Bruce crosses his arms. He’s wearing the Batman uniform, but the cowl is still down. “Part of which will need to include negotiating skills, I think.”

“B,” Jason whines. “Come on, the helmet is stupid. You know the helmet is stupid. If I go out there wearing it, I’m gonna be even more of a target.”

“You’re already dressed in the brightest colours there are.”

Jason throws him a withering frown. “I said  _ even more _ . And besides, you know villains are going to see Robin in a bike helmet and just laugh at us.”

“If they’re laughing, they’ll be easier to take down.”

“But then you wouldn’t get to beat them up, and don’t even pretend you don’t enjoy that part B I saw you smiling that time you knocked the Penguin out with his own cane.”

“Fine,” Bruce relents. He doesn’t deny the accusation. “No helmet. But I’m holding you to no whining about training, and I’m warning you now that there will be early starts on weekends.”

Jason groans internally, but externally he’s all jubilant smiles. “I won’t even complain to Alfred behind your back!”

“Hn.”

The computer behind Bruce comes to life and a green mask fills the screen. Jason almost takes a step back in shock.  _ Woah. _

“Good evening Batman, Alfred,” a mechanised voice says. The strange mask doesn’t really show emotion but the distorted voice sounds almost fond when it adds, “Robin, good to have you back.”

Jason’s gaze flickers between Bruce and Alfred. Neither of them seem alarmed by the talking computer. He looks back at the screen. Dick had mentioned something about an Oracle, a tech genius and overlord of a massive intelligence network who recently started helping them. This must be Oracle. And if Oracle is calling now, there must be work for Batman and Robin to do.

Jason bounces on the balls of his feet, grin lighting up his face. “Good to be back!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Jason's glasses](https://www.eyewearbrands.com/designer-glasses/emporio-armani/emporio-armani-ea-3091/emporio-armani-ea3091-5500-matte-green/) for anyone who is interested in the minute details I spent too long figuring out.
> 
> The end! Thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented, left kudos, etc. The response to this fic was greater than I expected and I'm so happy so many people enjoyed it :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are love or come yell at me on tumblr [here](http://tantalum-cobalt.tumblr.com).


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